A Knife in the Heart
by Wolvertique
Summary: Mystique's feelings about Christmas


A Knife in the Heart  
  
I was out shopping at the mall when I felt it. Deep sadness, aching pain.  
  
--I hate this time of year. I hate these people, all pretending to be happy. All of them with fake smiles, pretending all they want is peace and love. I had forgotten the Season of Lies they call Christmas is upon us.--  
  
She was walking toward the end corner department store. I followed her wounded spirit. It called to me. It was a deep wound.  
  
--Confront them with a child who could breathe flame, or a baby with blue.ice projecting eyes, and their peace and love shatters like the lies they are. I see the children heading to see Santa Claus and despise them and their parents. It's just another lie. Santa Claus was never real, and never has been. There is no one who loves children that much.--  
  
Her pain increased as she watched a child impatiently pulling his parents toward the line to see Santa Claus. Her tears were close to the surface, but she would not let them fall, and instead put up a curtain of false anger so she would not have to deal with the pain, could ignore it.for now.  
  
--Finally, they play something more in accord with my mood. Irony.--  
  
As the music switched from "Silver Bells" to "Blue Christmas," she smiled a little to herself. She walked onto an escalator heading up, and I swiftly followed. The siren song of her pain drew me along with her.  
  
--Just a few things to buy, and then I can leave.--  
  
The fat, lonely man in front of me decided to talk to her, in an attempt to get someone into his home this evening. "Nice display this year, huh? The Lions always do nice ones, but I like the Jaycees the best." She was mildly irritated by him, but looked in the direction he was pointing as she stalked off the escalator.  
  
--Oh great.a standard "baby Jesus" setting.my God, no. Her baby is blue!--  
  
Her adrenaline output increased dramatically along with her fear and pain as she looked at the blue and white creche scene. She walked to it and I and the fat man followed her, her distress so great I could hardly restrain myself from touching her. But she hadn't asked me for help, and I knew with the same senses I was using to sense her feelings and thoughts that she would rather die than ask for it.  
  
"You murdered your baby. What kind of person does that? " --I did it on purpose. Besides, I don't need or want a child, especially a mealy-mouthed Jesus freak.  
  
"You're evil. So what if he didn't die? You meant him to. Selfish, cold, empty woman. What else could he turn to but religion, after you abandoned him?" --I never wanted to be a mother, never wanted children.  
  
"Right. That's why you told all your friends to be at the birthing, why you were singing for months, picking out names, got more clothes ready than fifty children would need.because you didn't want him." --I don't know what you're talking about!  
  
"That's why you ran holding him, rather than throwing him to the crowd or sacrificing him yourself. That's why when it was obvious that you'd never get away with him, when you were forced to throw him away, you felt so awful, like you couldn't breathe." --Stop this. Now!  
  
"In fact, that's why you had Graydon, in the hopes of replacing Kurt. That's probably even why you adopted Rogue. You wanted children. You loved. And then you threw them all away, or pushed them away. What a monster you are!" --Shut up. SHUT UP! I will NOT hear this!  
  
She finally shut off her internal dialogue and let out a scream. She knocked the baby Jesus figure off its perch and ran down the escalator frantically, crying hard. I sighed. The fat man scratched his head. "What's wrong with her?" he asked the small crowd gathered, shocked by her actions.  
  
--I am not going to pay attention to anything. I am not going to live like this. I am most definitely not going to cry. I hate Christmas, all the parts of it, the decorations and the constant harping on families and mothers and children, and the damned crowds that make it impossible to get to one's car. And I always have hated it.--  
  
I gently picked up the figure and set it back in place. "She can't forgive herself for something that happened years ago. Now she doesn't think she deserves to be happy, so she hates Christmas and other people, and doesn't let herself realize that happiness is within her reach."  
  
"Huh," the fat man said, losing interest. "I always get the crazies." His pain was small but real, the pain of rejection, so I smiled at him. "Merry Christmas," I said, holding out my hand to him.  
  
His pain diminished, and he took my hand limply. "Yeah. Merry Christmas."  
  
He was easy to help. I shook my head. Mystique's pain was so great, though, that I could not hope to do anything with my own small talents to help her heal. I did wish, however, with all my heart for her healing and coming to peace.  
  
--Damn the smog. It's irritating my eyes and chest. That's why I feel so bad. I regret nothing.--  
  
Yes, Mystique. How long will you keep telling yourself that? 


End file.
